


shoot the lights out (on the things we did wrong)

by mymostimaginaryfriend



Series: cartel carols [2]
Category: Queen of the South (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jeresa, jsyk i refuse to google airstream logistics so, merry xmas HAVE SOME ANGST, teresa "ice queen" mendoza vs james "global warming" valdez
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 07:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17199536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mymostimaginaryfriend/pseuds/mymostimaginaryfriend
Summary: The trailer looks deserted, the windows are dark, the grass outside overgrown. But she knows that doesn’t mean shit. At this very instant, from somewhere in the shadows, a sniper rifle could have a bead on her heart.In fact, she is counting on it.(aka: I listened to River by Joni Mitchell and got all up in my Jeresa angst feelings--MERRY XMAS!)





	shoot the lights out (on the things we did wrong)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from It All Starts Now by Foreign Slippers
> 
> Mostly written on my phone in airports, so buckle up.

 

It doesn’t snow in Dallas but it doesn’t stay pretty green either—how’s that song go, again? _I’m going to make a lot of money, then I’m going to quit this crazy scene._

If only she had stuck to the plan.

No, it rarely snows in Dallas, but that doesn’t matter.  She’s brought the cold with her. A chill that goes bone-deep; a frost that doesn’t thaw, not even with her fur coat or the seat heaters cranked up in her Bentley. It’s the kind of cold that seeps slowly, slowly into the empty spaces of a soul and freezes solid, expanding in microscopic increments—an impossible decision here, an unbearable sacrifice there— until there’s nothing left but ice.

The cold is all she has now.  The glacier pushing and carving and transforming her into something new.  Any warmer, more tender feelings that might have lived within her once have been forced into hibernation and an endless wait for spring.  It’s been winter for years now. She might shatter before she thaws.

The late December night is pitch black. There are no Christmas lights here, no candles in windows, not even a moon to light the drive down this desolate dirt road.  Out here, in the witching hour, it’s as though she is the last person on Earth. A cautionary tale from a fable: the lone surviving queen who took a wrong turn down a dark path, forever left to mourn lights extinguished long ago.  

Her headlights swing across a clearing, illuminating a rusty trailer.  Maybe she did make a wrong turn somewhere, because somehow she’s ended up back _here._  

For a moment she feels it--the click and flare of a lighter flicker behind her sternum.  The pop, the snap, the loud crack splitting her rib cage. Differential expansion: ice dropped unexpectedly in warmth.  

The Airstream looks deserted, the windows are dark, the grass outside overgrown.  But she knows that doesn’t mean shit. At this very instant, from somewhere in the shadows, a sniper rifle could have a bead on her heart.

In fact, she is counting on it.

She cautiously raises her hands off the steering wheel and in deliberate, slow movements, steps out into the cold.  She can barely make out the dock in the dark yet she can feel the echoing space of the icy lake beyond it, the siren call of secrets held deep.  She strains her senses as though she’ll hear a whispered name on the wind, feel a caress on her frozen cheek—him or the void taunting her, beckoning her—

_Come back to me._

The envelope is clenched in her hand, the summons she was helpless to resist.  The card isn’t signed but she’d recognize that handwriting anywhere. _I’ll be home for Christmas._

An invitation? A warning?  An Auld Lang Syne?

She had immediately sent scouts to stake out all of his last known residences but they had returned empty handed.  For some reason, she just couldn’t delegate this last location on her list. There are some things you just had to do yourself.

She tilts the envelope until a key slides out into her palm and walks up to the door.  A motion-sensor light floods the front steps and for a moment she freezes, debating whether she should turn around and show her face to the dark.  Is he in the trees? Down by the water? Is he even here at all?

She doesn’t look. If he wanted to kill her, she’d already be dead.  As powerful as she’s become, her survival instinct has never let her forget _that_. The key turns easily in the lock and with a pounding heart she steps inside.  

The trailer is empty.  There’s no shadowed figure sitting in the dark; no safety clicking off a Glock. The only hand stifling her gasp is her own.  He’s not here. It’s been so long since she’s been surprised by anything that she doesn’t recognize the emotion at first. The hollowed out feeling of disappointment.  The unexpected skipped beat of her heart at just how much she was depending on seeing him—on finishing this face to face.

The lights still work, so someone’s been paying the bills or at least keeping the battery charged but the inside looks just about as abandoned as the outside.  Except, on closer look, not quite. There’s a pile of books on the table, an airplane ticket on the counter. The closet is half open and she can see a row of dark clothing hanging up inside.  

A snap.  A crack. Plates of ice shifting against each other under her ribs.

She runs a hand over the sleeves, tempted to bring one to her face, see if he still smells like her memories.  She turns toward the kitchenette instead. No coffee mugs in the sink, no candy bar wrappers in the trash. She opens the mini-fridge, hoping and fearing that it’ll be stocked with his favorite beer, maybe a takeout container or two, any sign that the trailer has been occupied recently.  

It’s empty except for a bottle of champagne.

She ignores the icy finger trailing down her spine and picks it up. _May auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?_ That’s not really her style anymore.  She doesn’t like loose ends. He taught her that.  

And that’s why she is here, she tells herself.  Loose ends. Nothing more. She pops the cork and takes a swig, not bothering looking for a glass. Whether she’s celebrating a beginning or an end, the bottle will do just fine.  

She takes another swallow and freezes as she sees a vision in white from the corner of her eye, calling her bluff. She almost has to laugh.  Her long lost mentor, finally deeming _this_ moment worthy of her divine intervention, deigning to offer wisdom after all these years of silence.  What could she even tell her now that she didn’t already know herself? Still, she turns and reaches out as though she can grab a hold of her, force her to stay, to answer for the path she abandoned her on. The path that led where he wouldn’t follow.  

But no, she’s not really here either; it’s just her own reflection off the kitchen window, a black mirror against the night.

All she has is herself.

_I don’t need her. I don’t need anyone._

She mockingly raises the bottle to her reflection before drinking deep.  But the cold bubbles don’t soothe like she expected, they burn.

_“We’re in this together.”_

_No._ She built this, not him—no matter how he haunts all of her accomplishments and regrets, walking through her memories like a ghost. She’s the one who fought and screamed and bled and _made_ it. She is the most powerful woman in the Western Hemisphere, respected and feared all over the world. No one can touch her now.

No one ever touches her now.

The bottle breaks before she’s even realized she’s thrown it. Her vehemence surprises her; for a moment it’s like she’s watching from a distance, feeling the emotions from the other side of thick glass.  It must be this place playing tricks on her. Why would he even bring her here? This trailer was always his, never theirs. Except that’s not quite true either.

She’s never been someone who needed to poke and prod the bruises to remember the pain.  She’s made it such a habit to not live in the past that it takes a minute for her to remember how. The bad memories deserve to be banished to the depths. The good memories she keeps submerged because they just might kill her.

They’d lived here for nearly a month, immediately after his extraction from the CIA.  His captivity had ended emphatically —particularly so for Devon—and they’d had to go on the run after that, hiding out here until the heat had cooled down, until Ivan could work his magic and clean up the mess.

Her eyes snag on the bunk in the back of the trailer and suddenly she can feel the flannel sheets sliding over her legs, his calloused fingers dragging down her thighs. Deep, drugging kisses pulling her under, then sweeping her away.  Memories, trickling faster now, one after another in the back of her mind.

Love will kill you faster than a bullet, true. But love can kill you a lot slower too.

His captivity had changed him in ways she couldn’t comprehend.  He still loved to touch her, to hug her, to hold her. But sometimes she’d wake up and it wasn’t her James lying beside her. He didn’t thrash or cry out, he didn’t scream. He’d just be preternaturally still, barely breathing, lethally alert. She didn’t have to see his face to know he was back in that cell, stuck in a post-mission feedback loop, reliving whatever horrible act he’d done to keep his end of the bargain. To keep her safe.

She’d slide in close behind him, her chest to his back, her face tucked into his neck. She’d slip one arm around him, lay her palm flat on his chest and use his heart beat like sonar, calling him back to her. “They can’t have you,” she’d whisper, anchoring him to the present. “You’re mine.”

_Come back to me._

Sometimes that was enough to lull them back to sleep.  But sometimes, he’d turn over in her arms and pull her on top of him.  She’d run her hands over his skin, smoothing over jagged edges, feeling for broken pieces, filling them in with fragments of her own. Patching him back together touch by touch, piece by piece.

That was her first mistake—thinking her fingers, her lips, her touch weren’t just triage but could make them permanently whole again. A band aid for a bullet wound.  

_“You don’t have to stay. You have no obligations to me.”_

_“I’m not leaving.”_

Yet no matter his intentions, _he_ was the one who ran in the end—he was the one who left _her—_

And she let him. He'd always come back before. Even when it was she who had fled to the other side of the world he had always found her again. Malta, Mexico, Phoenix—a fucking black cell in CIA captivity—he always made his way back home.

But this time was different; this time it was her turn.

_"We can’t live like this forever, we’ve gotta get out while we can.”_

_“I’m not running anymore James, I can’t.”_

_“Teresa, you’ve never stopped.”_

Each memory is a chisel, chipping away at her defenses.  He was right, she knows now, as much she’ll never forgive him for it. She just chose new things to flee from in the guise of her precious security. Emotions, her soul, him. 

_“Teresa, it doesn’t have to be this way. Tell me you still believe that.”_

_“I will do whatever I need to do to protect this. To protect us.”_

_“So will I.”_

It’s been almost three years now. She hasn’t seen him since.  Her net worth has quadrupled and her only trusted confidants are ghosts in her head. But it’s been worth it. It has to be. If everything she sacrificed and everyone she lost was for nothing—

_“Come back to me.”_

His voice is so clear in her memory that her eyes jerk up to the window, expecting to see him standing beside her in its reflection, a dark shadow against her pristine white coat and suit. For a moment, she indulges herself, filling out the details from memory, trying to paint the picture in her mind.  It doesn’t work. It doesn’t match what she remembers. She doesn’t even recognize herself standing next to him. Not like this.

Another snap. Another crack. An ice pick to her solar plexus.

She doesn’t belong here—not surrounded by his things and these memories. Surrounded by all of this warmth.

She stares at her reflection and doesn’t see Teresa Mendoza.  She only sees cold eyes and a frozen heart. Her frigid facade no longer a fortress, but a prison; the designer clothes and expensive jewelry not armor, but a straitjacket.

For the first time, she feels as though she’s trapped on the wrong side of the ice.

She studies her reflection and slowly shrugs off her coat, letting it slide to a pile around her feet on the floor. She takes off her white blazer next, then methodically removes her hoop earrings, her bracelets and her rings one by one.  It’s still not enough. She reaches up to her hair with numb hands, taking out the pins and unwinding her tightly coiled bun, combing her fingers through the strands.

_You don’t have to hide from me._  It’s not just his voice this time.  It’s her voice too.

Her movements become frantic now, kicking off her heels _,_ tearing off her clothes until she’s standing shivering in her silk camisole and underwear.  She stares at her reflection until her eyes burn, until the image blurs and melts into someone she almost recognizes.  Someone else she left behind a long time ago.

A hot tear burns a trail down her cheek and she starts to shake. She’d had a plan once.  Ideals. She was going to do things differently.

Win or lose. Live or die. She justified her decisions any way she could because all the loss, all the heartbreak—it couldn’t be in vain. She couldn’t have let him go—let herself go— for nothing.

She starts to shiver harder now, like a delayed reaction to the frozen blood thawing in her veins. She’s shaking uncontrollably as she stumbles to the back of the trailer, jerking open the tiny shower stall and cranking the water as warm as it will go. Her tears feel hot on her cheeks, the water scalding on her shoulders but she relishes the burn. Her limbs ache, her body is racked with sobs, tears streaming down her face faster than she can wash them away. She feels as though she’s being wrung out from the inside.  It hurts. It hurts so much. But she can finally _feel._

She sits in the shower until the water runs cold, until there are no tears left to cry.  She feels strangely hollow, unsure with what to fill all the space inside her, now that the ice is gone.  

She towels off and notices a familiar flannel shirt hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It still fits. She squeezes the water out of her hair and wipes a stripe of steam off the mirror.

_There you are._

She doesn’t notice the blurred shadow in the foggy reflection over her shoulder until it whispers her name.  It makes a certain kind of sense she’d conjure him next. It’s the confrontation she’s been hoping for all night: The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. Heart jackhammering in her chest, she hesitates for only a second before wiping the rest of the steam off the glass with her sleeve.

The image in the reflection doesn’t quite match her memory, but it’s close. Her: standing in her old flannel with her curly damp hair. Him: in all black, a steady presence behind her.  This picture she recognizes. This picture fits.

His hair is a little longer now, soft over his forehead, curling just past his ears. His face is clean shaven, with only some stubble left along his jaw.  He looks healthy and whole, if a little worn around the edges. Maybe a little sad. His eyes, though--his eyes look exactly the same.

He stands, half in the doorway, half in the hall, gun drawn but lowered as he takes her in, gaze darting around the bathroom and then looking back down the trailer--probably noting her pile of clothes, the broken glass of the champagne bottle all over the kitchen floor.  Back in his life for less than a minute and already making a mess of things again. He holsters his gun and takes a step into the cramped bathroom, meeting her eyes warily in the mirror. He can’t hide the flare of hope that briefly lights up his face. That she can so easily read the emotion both thrills and terrifies her. What is his life like now that he’s so out of practice masking his feelings?

“Teresa…”

She can’t seem to make herself turn around, afraid to break the spell.  Frightened that if she takes her eyes off him for a moment, he’ll disappear. She watches as his gaze registers her tear stained face, takes in her wet hair, lingers a little on her bare legs.

“Are you alright?”

She doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.  She swallows down a combination of both and grips the sink.

“No.”

He rocks forward a little before catching himself, his hands twitching empty at his sides.

She should have jumped into his arms the moment she saw him, let their bodies translate what she’ll never find words to say.  She should have begged his forgiveness before he could remember all that had changed between them. She’s not the same person he fell in love with; she’s evolved in ways that might never be undone.  She knows she can’t go back to who she used to be, but she can damn well decide who she becomes next.

“Not yet,” she clarifies and her answer compels him another step forward, as if he’s being involuntarily towed in by her voice.

He’s right behind her now, close enough to touch but although every cell of her existence is crying out for him, he stops short. She’s the one who created this distance between them. It’s unfair to expect him to be the one to close it first. She leans back a little, not wanting to spook him, and feels her hair brush against his chest. She hears him sigh, feels his hand lightly sweep her curls to the side, his breath on her neck as he lowers his head. Her head rolls back, unbidden until it comes to rest on his shoulder, his arms immediately raising to bracket hers, gripping the sink on either side of her hands.

She sees a flash of new ink peeking out from under his coat and touches it without thinking, pushing the sleeve up to trace the tattoo that vines from his wrist to his inner forearm.  A _Lirio de las valles,_ torn up by the roots.

“James,” she chokes out, gripping his hand as hard as she can, bringing it up to cradle it to her chest.  His other arm curls around her stomach and pulls her back into his embrace. She’s not sure if they’ll be able to rebuild what they destroyed. The cracks in their foundation might prove irreparable. She just knows she has to try.  “Am I too late?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his breath sounding harsh in the silence.  When he finally speaks, his voice is torn through with emotion. “I don’t know.”

But he doesn't let her pull away, he holds her to him tighter, turning their entwined hands over on her chest and sliding them flat under the fabric of her shirt until they are pressed over her heart. “You’re here now. That's something.”

It’s almost morning and she feels the bloom of something like hope unfurl under their linked hands. She lets his warmth surround her, melting the last vestiges of ice. 

_You came back to me_.

After so many years of surviving in darkness, it's finally time to try thriving in the light.

  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, lovelies. Kudos & comments are my life force, etc. etc.
> 
> tumblr: mymostimaginaryfriend


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